


American Potter

by Free Range Snallygaster (RemedialAction)



Series: American Potter [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action, Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, American Harry Potter, F/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 14:08:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21137960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemedialAction/pseuds/Free%20Range%20Snallygaster
Summary: To most denizens of Magical Britain, America is a distant and barely understood place. According to most official relations and understandings, their overseas cousins live their lives under the MACUSA, go to Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and generally live lives not unlike that of their British brethren. They do not know that the vast majority is mere propaganda, of the ever defiant southern Cavaliers, with their blood-purism and independent ways; they know nothing of the vast array of native traditions, far removed from the homogenized myths; they know nothing of the tradition of the African slaves, memories of stolen pasts and the needs of the future; and they know nothing of the western tradition, where the true heritage of the Scourers never died, the ways are passed master to student or in prairie-house schools, and where Lily Evans, mother to the Boy-Who-Lived had been born.They know nothing of the life Harry Potter had, raised by his aunt and uncle in the vastness of the American southwest, and have no idea that great upheaval he brings with him as he steps onto the train to Hogwarts.





	American Potter

**Author's Note:**

> Harry Potter and its characters, story, and everything else is © J. K. Rowling.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter, child of James Potter of the old British wizarding family of Potter, and American witch Lily Evans, undertakes his first year of Hogwarts, meeting friends and experiencing unexpected dangers as he attempts to navigate a very foreign world to that of his early life on his uncle's southwestern ranch for Magical Creatures.

Harry decided that the Hogwarts Express was something of an oddity. A pleasant one, to be sure, but it felt oddly out of place amongst the trappings of the world he'd stepped into. It was true that Harry had only returned to Magical Britain for a scant few weeks, and he was obviously too young to remember any of it from before when was nothing more than a baby, but if there was one thing he noticed (though, there was, in fact, many things he noticed, as he was good at noticing things,) it was that the train seemed very out of place.

The British Wizarding population seemed rather aloof from No-Maj, or Muggles as they called them, and were firmly seated in some very old ways. Uncle John had said they were 'more addle-headed than the Jonathans up in the MACUSA and that he was 'puzzled most plaguily' as to why Harry had wanted to accept the invitation to Hogwarts in the first place. Harry hadn't bothered trying to explain, knowing full well that his uncle _ did _ know why Harry wanted to go, and maybe deep down even thought it was a perfectly good reason. Still, Uncle had appearances to keep. Aunt Petunia hadn't said much at all, simply wishing him a safe and happy trip.

Whatever the case, the presence of a train, presumably a _ magical _ train, seemed so incongruous with what else he'd seen in his limited time between buying a wand and books and the proper robes so he didn't look _ too _ out of place (though he’d declined to change out of his boots; they were too well broken in to abandon, after all.) He'd changed into the robes right quick; he was getting enough looks as it was, and Hagrid, who'd been gracious enough to go with him, had seemed surprised by how well Harry had taken the attention. It had been good to see the half-giant; Harry had known Hagrid for years from his visits to the ranch back home, and he had been a rather stable point in the oddities Harry had encountered, and a useful native guide in uncharted lands, so to speak.

And so he'd gathered up all he'd needed, arrived at the platform in question, and boarded a magical train that would take him to a school that was a castle for educated wizards. The third time mulling that over he finally just accepted it for what it was, and focused instead on the terrain that rolled by the window of his cabin. He'd picked an empty one and took a seat in the far corner, and turned his mind instead to the exercises.

He'd already pulled out his coin before he'd even sat down, letting the silver octagon roll between his fingers, around them, and through them. He flicked it a few times, letting the coin spin a few times around before landing and taking a new winding path each time. It was a trick Uncle John did with spell-bound cartridges, but it worked just as well with a dragot. He was pleased that neither the knock nor the sliding of the door broke his concentration. The red-haired boy that had opened it had a furtive look his face as he spoke.

“Excuse me,” he began, “do you mind? Everywhere else is full.”

“Not at all,” Harry replied, smiling, “Come on in, then.”

A wide smile broke on the boys face, and he shuffled in, sliding the door shut behind him as he did. He was a young man, clearly about Harry's own age, in a simple sweater and pants, rather than robes, and was carrying along a rather pudgy looking rat. The boy sat on the same seat as Harry and extended a hand.

“Ron, Ron Weasley,” he said with gusto, only to suck in a sharp intake of air as Harry took his hand. Harry had been surprised too; it had taken a moment for Ron to notice; the boy hadn’t the greatest docity, it would seem.

“Blimey, you're Harry Potter!”

“Pleased to meet you, Ron,” Harry said, giving as firm a handshake as he could muster at eleven. He didn't begrudge Ron his shock, nor the amount of time he spent simply taking things in. Harry knew he was staring at the scar, the jagged line that ran from his forehead to his top of his cheek, cutting across his right eye in a line. It was obscured, partially, behind his unruly hair and the round golden frames of his glasses, but was visible all the same.

Harry had been told by some it looked like a lightning bolt, and others said it was somewhat miraculous his eye had not been lost. Harry knew better, though; his uncle had not thought it was necessary to shield him from the truth. He knew why the eye remained, and that its shape came from the motion of the wand used in the Killing Curse. He also knew neither of these were particularly proper topics for polite company.

Harry let Ron's hand go and returned to flipping his coin. To his credit, Ron recovered fairly quickly from his surprise, and leaned in conspiratorially, as if sharing a grave secret.

“I heard rumors you were back but no one really seemed to know for sure,” he said in a tone that seemed to evoke a whisper yet carried through the entire car. It'd probably have carried beyond if not for the closed door. Harry chuckled.

“I wasn't expecting that to be kept dry,” he said in reply, “but I also didn't expect it to be such a big deal.”

“But... you're Harry Potter!” Ron exclaimed, “You're famous!”

“Not back home, I'm not.”

It was at that moment that Ron seemed to notice something more about the boy in front of him. The scar and the glasses were odd, as was the odd-shaped coin dancing between his fingers, but it seemed that just in that moment, Ron had noticed something else.

“You kinda talk funny, mate.”

“I could say the same for you,” Harry said with a grin. Ron seemed set off kilter from that, so Harry just continued, “Where I'm from, bout everyone sounds like this.”

“And where is that?” Ron asked.

“Mohave County, mostly.”

Ron opened his mouth to reply when the door slid open again. This time Harry _ was _ caught off guard, his spinning coin halting at the apex of its arc after an idle flick, spinning about in mid air as he turned. The newcomer was another kid around his age, or at least so it seemed, a girl this time, with perhaps the bushiest head of hair he'd ever seen. He smiled at her as she looked about.

“Has anyone seen a toad?” she asked, tone slightly exasperated as she did, “A boy named Neville's lost one.”

Ron replied first with a simple No that somehow managed to pack in far more annoyance than Harry thought a two letter word could. He let the coin fall back down, resuming its path before he idly spun it on the tip of his finger. The girl's eyes snapped to it, and seemed to grow eager as she watched.

“Oh, are you doing magic? How are you doing that with no wand?” she said, sliding into the compartment as she did. Harry thought she looked almost giddy, “I read that wandless magic was very advanced!”

Harry simply shrugged, “It's just something my uncle taught me, a trick to practice with.”

The girl seemed to absorb this for a moment before speaking again.

“Well that's an interesting trick. I've only tried a few simple spells with a wand, but they've all worked for me,” she said, extending her hand towards him. He took it and shook it lightly, the way Uncle had taught him to shake a lady's hand, and smiled.

“I'm Hermione Granger,” she said with a prim smile, “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter.”

“Please, call me Harry,” he said, a little amused she had been more interested in his coin trick than, well, him. She smiled back, before turning a somewhat disdainful look on the other boy.

“And... you are?” she asked.

Ron seemed to be ignorant or to simply ignore the tone, “I'm Ron Weasley.”

“Pleasure,” she intoned, sounding very much like it was anything but. She stood again, glancing back at the boys as she reached the door, “I should go try to help Neville find his toad, then. You'll let me know if you see it?”

Harry thought for a moment before he stood himself,“I can help, if you'd like; I'm good with animals.”

Hermione simply smiled at him before heading out the door and into the hall. Harry thought it was the clean thing to do, proper to help someone that asked decently. He glanced back to see a somewhat disappointed expression take the other boy's face. Harry simply smiled back at him.

“It was good to meet you, Ron,” he said, and honestly meant it; he didn't seem a bad sort, really. Bit gruff, but Harry was used to that. “If I don't get back before we arrive, I'll see you at the castle then, yeah?”

Ron looked up at him for a moment, face breaking out into a large smile at the words. Harry grinned back, and made his way out of the cabin and after Hermione, eyes darting about for any sign of a toad. He’d tracked down hodags with his uncle, this couldn’t be any harder than _ that _.

♠

The soft scratch of quill on parchment sounded in the common room of the Gryffindor dorms, joined only by the slight crackle of the slowly fading fireplace. Harry stared down at the parchment, already several feet in length, and sighed, letting the quill fall from his fingers. He went over the writing again, scowling at the penmanship (or would that be quillmanship.) He wondered what exactly it was that had transformed the Hogwarts potions master into a greasy curmudgeon that thought issuing so many feet of parchment was a valid assignment for so early in the semester. 

It wasn’t enough to really get him down in the mouth, but it was cramping up his hand. He stretched it out, snapping his fingers a few times before retrieving his mother’s coin, flipping it along his knuckles and fingers, pleased the scratching hadn’t ruined his hand, it seemed. It was good, because Harry was of a firm belief that any teacher that gave an assignment that caused permanent harm to a pupil’s hand would be just the worst. This was likely not a controversial position, but he had it all the same. 

He had plenty of controversy hidden away anyway, after all.

Harry stood to stretch his legs, still working his fingers out with the coin. He switched hands, using his now free right hand to run through his unruly hair. Glancing down at the parchment on the table in front of him caused a frown to form on his face as his mind turned to Professor Snape again. The man plainly didn’t like him, and had an improper favoring of his own house, which itself seemed like a gaggle of brutes, bigots, and beef-headed belvideres. 

Take, for example, the chief brutish, bigoted belvidere himself, one Draco Malfoy. Their meeting had been cordial, back in that first day before they’d sent around that sorting cap, right up till the boy had started talking. Harry could read well, and Ron was an open book next to him. When Draco went in on his barbs and high-falutin talk, offering a hand in showing him ‘the right sort,’ Harry hadn’t even hesitated.

“I can plainly tell the right sort myself, thank you kindly.”

Frankly, Harry would’ve been all fine to leave it at that and let the slick-haired chap go on his merry way, but the boy was chuffy and could well and truly hold a grudge (though, if he was inclined to be fair, Harry would have to admit he did too.) Malfoy had taken an untoward delight in making Harry and Ron’s life difficult.

Harry removed his glasses and set them atop his essay, sighing as he tried to blink out the weariness he felt in his eyes.

There had been the time during flying lessons, their first one, in fact, when poor Neville’s broom had a conniption and Madam Hooch had taken him off to get fixed up. Draco had snatched up his remembrall. The brief verbal tussle ended with Harry used his talent in prestidigitation to snatch the thing out of the air when Draco had tossed it up. Neville had thanked him later, after Harry returned it; it had been the second time he’d found something of Longbottom’s, including Trevor.

Harry liked Neville. He was a bit lost at times but was a good sort. He sat back down, tucked the dragot away, and donned his spectacles. The quill scratching picked up again as he got back to it.

Things hadn’t ended there, of course. Draco had challenged him to a duel in the trophy hall, and Harry couldn’t rightly be expected to turn _ that _ down, could he? His uncle would’ve tanned his hide, he’d thought, had he said no. It was only after Hermione had been dragged in and they’d managed to slip Filch’s sadistic grasp that he thought otherwise. They’d run into a three-headed dog and Harry had thought that perhaps his uncle would have been more disappointed in him for not thinking that one through.

The dog had been interesting, though. He made a mental note to go ask Hagrid about that later; why a beast like that was guarding a trap door seemed a curious little question. There was something down there; he’d let the pain through long enough to let the sight flow through him, when Ron and Hermione weren’t looking (bickering about something, probably.) It wasn’t dark, but it was… odd. And powerful. Very powerful.

Harry sighed, staring down at the parchment. Professor Snape really was right terrible. It wasn’t that he’d given truly bad marks to Harry, but that was because he couldn’t really without coming down harder on some of the less accomplished Slytherins in class. Harry was completing task requirements, and frankly he was a damn fine potioneer, at least for his age.

He might not be able to list off exact recipes, but his results were usually good. Harry had a sense for things when it came to herbs and potions, his uncle had drilled that into him, but that wasn’t the way Snape wanted it done. Hermione could do everything exact, because that girl was smart. By good rights, she deserved the top spot and even Snape’s favoritism couldn’t undermine that too much.

Harry, though? He got by, with plenty of glares and quips from Snape about being sloppy and reckless, and said how surprising that was, voice dripping with sarcasm as he did.

He heard movement from behind and turned, green eyes settling in on the source. Hermione seemed as surprised as he was. She spoke up before he could say anything.

“Harry, what are you doing still up?” she asked, hugging a number of books to her chest. The light was dim but something seemed off about her eyes. 

“Just put’n some final touches on Professions Snape’s assignment.”

“Oh, the potions essay?” she said, voice taking on a tone that was a bit smug and prim. Her eyes seemed to light up for a moment as she spoke, “_ I _finished that days ago.”

“Not surprised by that,” he replied smoothly, small smile on his face, “You’ve got the potions book down pat, looks like. You’re top in class, completely above-board.”

She seemed taken aback, but he wasn’t sure if it was his word usage or the compliment itself. He had quickly learned his idioms weren’t always translating well, but the habit was hard to break.

“What I mean is you’re, uh, brilliant, I think it is?” It sounded a bit odd with the twang of his accent. Hermione seemed to widen at that.

“Thank you,” she said in a small voice, looking down at her stack of books. She looked as if she was going to say something else, but stopped, waiting for a moment before speaking again.

“You should get to bed soon, Harry,” she said, tone taking on authority, “We’ve got charms in the morning.”

Harry smiled, “Thanks, Hermione. I’ll head directly.”

She just smiled and nodded, hustling up into the girls dorm. Harry watched her go. He liked Hermione, honestly, even if she had her moments. Ron seemed to be unable to stand her; but Ron was abrasive in his own ways too. 

He turned back to his parchment, set down the quill and began to roll it. He’d finish it in the morning, then. Harry tucked it under his arm and headed for bed. Didn’t want to make himself a liar, after all.

♥

Harry was, admittedly, not the most experienced in British slang or idioms, but he was fairly certain that Ron was being a prat.

He was sitting next to his friend at the Halloween banquet, tables arranged in various fineries and covered in seasonal treat. As far as Harry could tell it was one of two major holidays that the British Wizarding world observed, the other being Christmas. There was an oddity to that but Harry couldn’t really think about it because Ron was being a prat and also, he suspected but wasn’t sure, a git.

Harry grabbed a glass of pumpkin juice, eyes being drawn to the empty space at the table. He should say something. He looked up, marveling at the stormy sky and floating jack o’lanterns; it was quite… _ magical _, really. It was a shame Hermione was missing it.

Harry liked Hermione, really. He’d given it some thought after that night in the common room and realized that he honestly felt he understood her better than he did just about anyone else in Hogwarts, and not just because several professors were seemingly inscrutable, but his fellow students too. 

Setting his glass down, he moved to take a slice of pumpkin pie, watching as Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan talked with Ron. That was a curious mix, because he felt like those two should have been relatable in the same way Hermione was; Dean grew up thinking he was muggleborn, and Seamus was half blooded, raised up close to magic but still a bit out.

But Dean had siblings and Seamus had a wizard mom and a cousin, and the two were carrying on like all-fired fools at Hermione’s expense. She didn’t have any siblings, or cousins, or anyone really. And neither did he. Harry had grown up on a ranch surrounded by ornery beasts, a rather eccentric uncle, and a No-Maj aunt. It wasn’t bad, really, not _ really _ . It was just, you know, a bit _ lonely _.

And now, thrust into the center of a world that seemed rather odd, meaning whimsical, and _ odd _ , as in seemingly nonsense, where folks did things differently, he didn’t know the slang, or the history, and while he knew magic, it wasn’t _ their _ magic. Hermione didn’t even have that, but she was sharp as a tack and damn good, and somehow it only made her seem _ more _ out of place. Dean and Seamus could understand some of it, the feeling of being an outsider, but they could get by with the rest.

Ron couldn’t understand any of it, though; Harry had tried to tell him but the red head was all down but nines about it, thought Harry must fancy her or something, which had made Harry flush. Ron wasn’t a bad guy, not _ really _. He was just on the prod, always wound up. Far as Harry could tell, Ron wasn’t used to getting a lot of attention; it was almost the inverse of his and Hermione’s shared plight. When Hermione seemed to be talking down to him he couldn’t seem to help but hit back, but often in a far lower blow.

He’d at least looked a tad sheepish when Neville had said he’d heard that she’d been crying all afternoon, but had gone back to eating soon after. The charms lesson had been a sore point, it seemed. Harry frowned as he remembered; she _ had _ been being a bit haughty, but that didn’t mean he had to go after her the way he did. 

No friends. That was wrong. Harry was her friend. Maybe, though, he wasn’t acting like a very good one. He kicked himself; he really should go find her.

And then Professor Qurriel burst in.

“Troll!” he shouted, eyes wide and hysterical, “There's a troll in the dungeon!”

The words hung in the air, all activity coming to a halt. Ron looked to be frozen, eyes wide with shock. The rest of the room wasn’t much different.

“Thought you ought to know,” the defense professor continued, before promptly fainting. Harry’s respect for the man, already low, reached a new bottom. 

And then the room exploded. Students yelled, scrambled, chaos and fear taking them. Harry felt it too; he knew trolls, though he’d never seen one before. Uncle John had, though, he’d _ fought _ them. The pain in his right eye built, subtle green glow that rose with the burn thankfully lost in the hustle of the moment. 

Harry glanced up from Quirrel, his hind brain noticing something odd about the man even as his forebrain tried to clamp on the fear. His eyes travelled up to the faculty table, stopping first on, strangely, Professor Snape. He was staring at Quirrel as well, only to snap up so quickly that it surprised Harry. He turned away, clamping down on the pressure behind his eye and scolding himself for losing his focus. 

He turned just in time to see the headmaster rise, and bellow for silence. Harry’s respect for the man, already high, reached even higher. 

“Everyone, if you please, do not panic,” he said, voice calm but decisive, “Prefects, you will lead your houses back to the dormitories. Teachers will follow me to the dungeons.”

And like that, order was restored. Dumbledore was just about the oldestrmost looking person Harry had ever seen, yet his words brought a preternatural calm. As the students filed out of the great hall, Harry wondered if that was simply natural or some sort of spell, wandless and wordless. Idly, his hand found his mother’s dragot, tucked away in a pocket.

Hermione. His head snapped around. He stepped off without a thought, only to feel a tug on his robe. Harry spun, finding Ron staring at him with a questioning look. Whatever question he had died in his throat as he took in the sheer determination that filled Harry’s green eyes.

“Hermione doesn’t know, Ron,” he said, voice nigh unto steel in hardness. And it was in that moment that Harry fully understood why Ronald Bilius Weasley was sorted into a house of the brave.

“Alright,” he said, voice making a passable attempt to copy Harry’s own tone, “Let’s go.”

They cut off the end of the line of students with all the stealth that had served them to evade Filch before, and slipped away towards the bathroom they’d been told Hermione was in. Harry felt the pressure rise again, strange instinct telling him to let it go…

The green light burst from his eye, bathing his face in its eerie glow. Ron nearly stumbled, mouth agape. 

“Harry, what-“ 

Harry didn’t listen to him finish. He could _ see _ it. Trolls weren’t creatures of dark magic, not really; they weren’t beasts, really, either. They were a curious thing, beings of strange sort and admittedly vile tastes, but they weren’t _ dark _. They didn’t leave that tell-tail sign that Uncle John had spoken of, the sticky, oozing remnants of violation in the world. Harry had never seen that. He didn’t use his sight often, the pain too much and the danger too real, but he didn’t see that now, nor did he expect to.

There was a thought in his hindbrain, as if he’d missed something; a feeling as if in his rush, he’d misplaced important facts. There was no time to delve into that, though.

Trolls were not dark, but trolls _ were _magical, and constantly so; they were, despite their brutish frames and minor intelligence, truly masters of transfiguration, creatures that were, seemingly, at all times transfiguring into themselves. Harry knew this only idly, in things he’d read or his uncle had said. It was a talent that had never been successfully replicated, and very often unsuccessfully attempted, to the detriment of those who tried. And thus, like any strong magic, he could see it.

The ambient magic of Hogwarts was almost too much to see through, like a shining fog. He pushed through it, reciting what his Uncle had told him in his mind. His hands tightened, wand in one hand, his mother’s coin, clung onto like a protective totem..

And he _ saw _ it. It snapped into view, just like Uncle John said it would, somehow focused yet not, a flaring pillar of lightning and power. 

And he saw _ her _ , too. Smaller, denser, _ brighter _ , so bright it felt it should hurt to see but it didn’t it just felt _ warm _.

Harry began to sprint. 

They reached the bathroom moments later. It was chaos. Harry realized that the storm in the Great Hall had been a reflection of a storm outside as lightning and thunder boomed, casting shadows across the hulkin’ beast in front of them. The stalls had been smashed to timbers, and Hermione was screaming.

“Get its attention!” Harry shouted, already in motion. Ron’s eyes flashed in shock and fear, but he acted and in that moment Harry was so proud he could call him friend. The stinging hex Ron used was more light than heat, but did its job. The troll spun, club clearing Hermione’s head by scant inches. 

He could see its magic, how it flashed and flared, flowing up, always up, it seemed. The head was hardly a novel place to target, but it was reliable. Harry had nothing, though. He wasn’t his uncle, he wasn’t a hunter, a spellslinger, a Scourers with a wand in one hand and packing iron in the other. He was just a kid who knew some things but not enough things to save Hermione and now he was going to get Ron killed and it was going to be all his fault and…

Harry let the pain grow, skidding to a halt behind the troll. Its knobbly grey body juddered and shook. His hand shifted the coin clutched in his palm to the tips of two fingers. He rolled them around its surface, keeping it pinned all the while, pouring in all that slight magic that came with the feat of prestidigitation, feeling as the trapped coin began to heat. It was not a named spell, it was just raw, instinctive.

Ron slung another hex, ducked a swing, and screamed.

The coin was red hot, glowing between his fingers. He smelled a hint of burning meat and realized it was him, but he didn’t feel it, body flush with adrenaline and anger and the pain behind his eye. He held it as long as he could then held it some more, until the flesh started to blacken. 

Harry brought his wand up, baleful eye a blaze of sickening green, and shot off his own hex. It was a pitiful thing, really, barely worthy of being called a hex at all. But it worked, and the troll spun, staring at Harry with anger and malice. It was quite pokerish, really. Harry stared death in the face, and flicked a coin at it, thrusting out with all the power he could, power that he’d never have been able to muster with intent, merely with _ instinct _.

The red hot dragot punched through the troll’s head, and the beast did not so much fall as just crumpled. It collapsed into a heap, forcing Ron to jump out of the way to avoid the bulk.

The room was not silent. Water was gushing from broken pipes, thunder still echoed from outside. Ron and Hermione were quiet though, as was the heaped body of the troll, sprawled out, cold as a wagon tire. They stared at it, and at Harry, and at his right eye, glowing still its sickly green as he moved up and with a flick, pulled the coin out from the troll’s head. It escaped with a squelch, heat expended.

Harry’s fingers hurt and his coin was covered in blood and brain. He moved to one of the few unbroken sinks and turned it on, rinsing it off in the stream. And then, as if the shock had finally worn off, he looked up. He caught sight of himself in the mirror, and the pain in his eye suddenly surged back into focus. He clamped down, hard, and the green glow went with it.

He spun to face them. They were staring at him. At his scar. At his eye. He looked from Hermione, to Ron, and back again. Without much thought, he started to speak.

“Can you keep a secret?”

♣

“I feel like we’ve got a puzzle with half the pieces missing,” Ron said with a groan, letting his head fall onto the table. Harry couldn’t help but agree. For weeks now, between classes and such, Hermione, Ron and him had been trying to piece together the strange mysteries they’d stumbled into.

And so, more often than not the three of them could be found huddled together in the library or, alternatively, the Gryffndor common room, all going over some book or another. 

Most thought they were working on homework, and mostly they were; they were still in school after all. Sometimes, though, they were tucked into things a touch more substantial. Or trying to be, at least.

“If Hagrid hadn’t let loose with Flamel’s name we’d not have a lead at, feels like,” Harry replied, eyes flicking over the pages of a book. It was a charms book, not about the oddities with the trap door or the like, but rather just some assigned reading for Professor Flitwick’s class. He honestly should have been paying more attention; he was getting by, but nowhere near where he wanted to be. 

He’d discovered, to his chagrin, that the talent for minor wandless magic translated to almost nothing in terms of wandwork. The rather wild tradition of magic his uncle and neighbors had practiced, wanded or otherwise, was different itself. What it lacked in flash or raw power it made up in flexibility.

And it felt totally different to the magic he was learning now.

So while he could get by in potions, enduring the sneers and sniffs at his ‘crude and reckless brewings’ by Professor Snape because his potions usually worked, the same use of his home’s knowledge seemed rather worthless in nearly any other class, spare maybe Care of Magical Creatures or Herbology, in which his time on the ranch was doing wonders. And Flying didn’t count, no matter how much he’d been a natural at it; brooms were an English thing, or European, he supposed, and he’d had nothing like it back home.

Harry sighed and took off his glasses, setting the gold frames down on the book. He rubbed at his eye, noticing after a moment that Ron was staring at him. At his eye. 

“What,” he asked, already knowing. 

“Nothing,” Ron lied, turning away as he did, making so big a show it ended up saying more than talking. Harry let a small grin touch his face; leave it to Ron to be honest in his lies.

“Anyway, clearly Snape is up to something,” Ron finally said, and this time it was Harry’s turn to give Ron a look. The Weasely glanced back, arching an eyebrow.

“What? Snape’s a git, you know it best of all.”

Harry snorted. Ron wasn’t wrong, exactly. Snape had continued to pepper Harry with barbs about his ‘undisciplined’ potioneering, and let Malfoy and his goons get away with near anything. But…

“I’m not so sure,” he murmured, thinking back to the night with the troll, and then the argument he’d discovered thanks to the anonymously gifted cloak at Christmas, the one that had led to the mirror that had shown him a scarless visage and parents he never knew…

Harry reached to touch his scar again and heard Ron open his mouth. Whatever he was going to say was cut off in an abrupt huff as Hermione dropped a book that seemed heavier than she was on the table in front of the boys. Harry jolted, and Ron about jumped out of his skin. You’d almost forget he was the boy who stung a troll just to distract it. 

“I’ve been looking in the wrong place the whole time,” she said, “How could I be so stupid!”

Harry recovered first, “Not like you’ve been beating the Devil around the stump; we’ve all been busy, and you’re top of bout all the classes, after all.”

She looked up at him and gave a soft smile. He liked when she did that. He wondered if she actually understood what he meant, making a mental note for the dozenth time to cut back on the idioms.

“Yes, well, I checked this out a few weeks ago for some light reading,” she said, which was enough, apparently to shake Ron out of his shock. 

“_ This _ is light?” he asked, earning a withering glare from Hermione as she carefully turned the tome’s yellowed pages. She finally settled upon what she was looking for. Her finger tapped the page, face seeming to glow in triumph. 

“Right here. Nicholas Flamel, famed alchemist and only known creator of the Philosopher’s Stone!”

Harry and Ron shared a glance, but it was Ron who articulated their shared thought.

“The what?” he asked, earning yet another glare. Harry frowned. Things were better, ever since the troll, but some things seemed to never change; Ron was someone that always seemed to get a rise out of Hermione. But they were both trying, it seemed.

“I’ve never heard of that either,” Harry chimed in, hoping to take some of the heat off his friend. The look she gave him was far less baleful but it still made him shrink a bit. Her tone, though, was somewhat playful.

“Honestly, you two, you need to do more reading,” she said, turning back to the book as she did, “The Philosopher’s Stone is a legendary substance that can be used to transform any metal into pure gold.”

“Well, that woulda changed the gold rush back home,” Harry said almost idly, mind drifting to the ghost towns and lost mines his uncle had told him about. Strange places, with strange power, and home to all sorts of oddities. 

“Yes, well, that’s not all,” Hermione said, reclaiming momentum as she did, “It's also the source of the Elixir of Life, which grants the drinker immortality.”

Ron gaped, “Immortality…”

“It means you never die,” Hermione said quickly, not even bothering to look up. Ron began to sputter out something about knowing what it meant, but Harry cut him off. This was interesting stuff.

“So Flamel can make the stone? Why doesn’t he use it for more people?”

Hermione did look up this time. She gave him an odd look, as if it had been something she’d not even thought about, and maybe wouldn’t have had he not brought it up.

“Well, it is apparently notoriously difficult to make; Flamel is the only one to achieve it. I’d guess it can only produce so much Elixir. It says the user must drink more to maintain the effect, after a long time.”

Harry nodded. It made sense, tragically. He glanced over at Ron, who seemed deep in thought. Harry quirked an eyebrow when Ron noticed, as if inviting him to share.

“So, Snape’s trying to steal the stone, then, you think?”

“I’m not so sure,” Harry replied, brows furrowing. There was something about it that seemed off. He remembered the strange feeling in the Great Hall, looking at Quirriel and Snape in that momentary loss of control, when the fear had surged through him. He hadn’t focused, not like he had on the troll, or Hermione, but…

“Oh come on, Harry, you’re not still on that are you?” Ron asked, leaning back in animated frustration.

“On what?” Hermione asked, glancing between the two boys. Ron spoke, letting out a huff as he did. 

“Harry doesn’t trust Professor Quirrel. I don’t either, mind, but thats ‘cus he seems so scared of everything,” he said, wicked little smile on his face at the end, “Maybe he wants the stone because of that.”

“Do you _ really _ think it's him, Harry?” she asked, seriousness written in her expression, “But wasn’t Snape threatening _ him _?”

It was a fair question; that was what Harry had seen that night, right before Filch had interrupted. Yet there was something just plain off about the whole thing, and he knew it was something he’d seen, but hadn’t been able to truly remember, a glimpse of… something.

“It's just…” he began, brow furrowing. He paused, trying to find the best way to explain something he didn’t really understand to people that didn't even have the broken and half-wrought context he did. They were staring at him intently. 

Harry let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and moved to tap his scar. The pair, who had leaned in expectantly, began to ease back in their chairs. 

“Blood hell, Harry,” Ron said softly, glancing around as if only now realizing they were in a library, and was rather conspicuously seeing if anyone was watching.

“Did you see something, then?” Hermione’s voice sounded small, concerned. Harry knew the strangeness of the sight bothered her, and his insistence on not telling any of the faculty seemed even more so.

“I don’t know,” he replied lamely, deflating. Hermione reached over the book to grab his hand, squeezing softly.

“It's… hard to explain,” Harry said after a moment of consideration, frustrated at the difficulty of putting it into words, “It’s like a memory that’s out of focus, like something you’ve seen out of the corner of your eye. I didn’t see it, not fully, and so… I don’t know how to explain it.”

Hermione and Ron both looked at him with unhidden concern, each in their own way. Harry warmed at that; his friends, his _ friends _, could have easily cut slick and left him after any number of things, but here they were.

Hermione squeezed his hand again, and Harry let himself smile. 

♦

As Harry sipped at his cocoa and stared into the fire he stood in front of, he was thinking that this was not how he’d been intended to spend his freshman year; at no point had he expected to be trouncing through a forest due to detention, looking for a wounded unicorn only to find it dead and being sucked on by the shambling remnant of someone that had tried to kill him when he was in the crib. He stuck a hand in his pocket and grasped his mother’s coin, took a long drag from his cocoa, and turned.

“I’m no dab on the subject,” he began, smiling wide as his friends, “But I think that was nigh unto my third worst night ever.”

They stared at him. Hermione had a blanket stop her lap, book on top of that. Harry wasn’t sure why it stuck out to him, but he understood; to his friend, books were comfort, books were safe. After all, what harm could a book do?

Ron, on the other hand, was visible only by freckled face poking out from beneath a heavy blanket, one that seemed hand nit, maybe one of his mother’s homemade ones. His eyes widened at Harry’s word.

“Third?!”

“I’m just saying,” Harry continued quickly, raising up his mug in a salute. He was trying to keep the casual affectation up, long as he could… long enough, hopefully, to convince himself, “At least this time it was going after me, and not you two. ‘parently Voldemort can hold a grudge.”

Ron looked at him like he was full-on cracked, totally up to the hub of insanity. Harry wasn’t sure he was wrong to think that. Hermione, on the other hand, just frowned and let out a soft “Oh Harry.”

“I thought You-Know-Who was dead though?” Ron said, fear plain in his eyes, “How can he be out in the forest, right now?”

Harry didn’t blame him, and didn’t fault him none either. He’d realized early on that Ron, and many of the rest of the students familiar with the wizarding world had been raised on the horror stories. Some of the older ones might even have vague memories of the time, and all that went with vagueness and horror. Harry took no pleasure in making his friend’s day, and perception of the world, worse.

“Apparently not…” he said, shaking his head, “But he’s weak, living off the blood of unicorns, and someone is trying to get the Philosopher’s Stone for him, I’m sure of it...“

“It has to be Snape!” Ron said, excitedly, before catching himself and looking about in the dimmed common room as if he expected the professor to seep out from one of the flickering shadows. Harry didn’t respond.

The course of events that had led to the night were still running through his head. The knowledge Hagrid had shared, the dragon, and Malfoy. That fool Malfoy’s dumb scheme had backfired, and it was only wanting to spare more trouble that had prevented Harry from acting out; he’d rather wanted to give him a cocked hat, more for dragging his friends into this. Though Ron’s gittery had largely ended the night of the troll, and he had apparently come to consider Hermione his friend as well, Draco’s bigotry remained a constant, and Harry nearly had a conniption each time. 

It reminded him of things his uncle had told him, things that still got bandied about by blue bellies up in the MACUSA despite all their high minded talk, and the cracklings of the ol’ Cavaliers down south, and about his mother…

Harry pushed it out of his mind; it wasn’t relevant to the here and now.

Malfoy had it out for the three of them, though, though his foolery had ended with being dragged in himself, to his chagrin. That was small consolation for Harry, at the least, a bare touch of justice, not nearly enough. Uncle said justice was a rare thing, and Harry hadn’t really understood it. He thought maybe he kinda did now.

Whatever the case, the punishment had led to his encounter with Voldemort. He remembered the searing pain, how it rose up. It was then that he’d seen, truly _ seen _why the dark sight was so named. The foulness of the thing, it’s very movements a blight, leaving behind ichorous remnants where it was at rest, thicker than the pools of silver blood the creature had killed. It had come for him, it’s foul deed dripping from beneath its hood, and he had frozen like a post. There was some part of him, something deep inside that told him that if not for Firenze, he’d have died.

Something made him feel he was missing something, something lost deep in a part of him without conscious thought...

“Come on now, Harry,” Hermione began, shaking Harry from his melancholy dwellings. She smiled at him, tinged with concern but seemingly assured never-the-less, “Voldemort won’t try anything, not with Dumbledore around. The books all say he was the one wizard he always feared.”

She paused for a moment before her smile widened a bit, “Well, until you came along, at least.”

Harry forced himself to smile again, trying to reclaim that bravado he’d lost during his bout of thinking, and pushed it down. She was probably right, of course, given how often she was. Dumbledore had a plan, no doubt, something to handle Voldemort. As long as he was around, Harry would be safe, and so would his friends.

Yes, just so.

♠

Dumbledore had gone, and everything had gone so very wrong. They’d been through the mill. He’d had to leave Hermione behind, and Ron too. He hoped they were ok, prayed they were ok. Wizards here in England didn’t seem to pray much, didn’t seem to have religion at all. Back home they did, in places. Harry wasn’t sure he believed, but he kinda wanted to, if only for the chance his prayers might help his friends be safe. 

He continued down the stairs, fighting hard to clamp down on the pressure behind his eye, the pain in his scar that seared him down to the bone. 

Friendship and bravery. That’s what Hermione said he had, when he’d had to leave her behind. He insisted, of course, which he supposed was a fair point to confirm it. He was unsure if he agreed with her assessment about books and cleverness, as both had come in handy that night. He wished he still had it, and Ron’s too, because he’d realized that the boy, warts and all, was a clever friend too, and brave in his own ways. He wished he had them both, and yet was glad he didn’t. The conundrum there was fixing to split his head, but the scar seemed it was intent on doing it first.

He wondered if he should fight it, why he bothered. There was no one around, no one to see. No one but him. 

Deep in, though, he didn’t want to see what was down here, not like that. He’d seen things enough, and understood why his uncle called the sight a burden. He thought he’d understood that before, but he’d been a fool. His first year had taught him how much he didn’t know and didn’t understand.

“Ah, Mr. Potter,” Quirrel said as Harry continued his descent. The professor was standing in front of the Mirror of Erised, and Harry understood in that moment what the headmaster had meant when he said he was moving it.

The turbaned man turned, and Harry thought he looked far more solid than he ever had before. There was no shake, no quiver, no furtive glances, only greed in his eyes, a sort of desperation. Harry halted in his steps. He did not step back, he refused to step back. Bravery. He was sorted for bravery. The hat had said he had ambition, he had loyalty, he had cleverness, but bravery. He wanted to be brave. Hermione had said he was brave. He did not step back.

“Surprised to see me, then?” Quirrel continued, a smug grin growing on his face.

“Not really,” Harry said on a reflex, with tragedy in the fact that he was focused too much on the pain behind his eye and on keeping steel in his belly to appreciate the faltering look on the erstwhile professors face at his pronouncement, “I suspected that something wasn’t quite right ‘bout you. Ron thought it was Snape.”

“Snape… yes, I suppose he seems more the type. A useful misdirection, for sure, in all his manifold brooding,” the professor replied, face expressive in its amusement, “I suppose some credit is in order then, Mr. Potter. It is a shame that your budding brilliance may go wasted.”

Ah, so he was going to die. Unfortunate.

Harry felt a strange coldness come over him at that thought, so strange. It wasn’t fear, not like the last time. Or times, he supposed, but it was different from the troll, and from the forest, different all together from the lot of them. This was… colder.

“Well, then, in that case,” Harry said, unsure of the bravery that flowed into him. There was a small voice inside of him, whispering something very important. He wanted to live, and so act. Death would not take him standing idle. He resumed his downward steps.

“In that case, will you humor me, then?” he asked as he went lower, stopping when the stairs allowed him to look eye to eye with the turbaned man, “Do you happen to be some nibbler that just wants the stone for yourself or are you a lacky of Voldemort?”

“My my my, you are a clever one, though I suppose it's not too surprising to piece things together,” Quirrel replied, bringing his hands up to clap softly, mockingly, “You had more pieces of things than most, though, so only partial credit, I’m afraid.”

Quirrel turned his back and looked back into the mirror, and Harry could not help but feel a flash of anger at the dismissal. You never turned your back on someone you thought was an enemy, a threat. Uncle had told him that, and Harry had always started noticing who it was that Uncle didn’t turn around from after that. Harry’s fist began to ball, and his hand reached into his pocket, searching for his totem, his mother’s coin…

“You will take your hand out of your pocket, Potter,” Quirrel said, voice suddenly filled with a harsh and steely tone. He did not turn, but Harry could see the professors eyes flash darkly in the mirror.

“I recall your little trick with the troll,” he continued, voice cold. Ah, well, at least that was something, “A clever ploy, not something most wizards would think of, I think. It was very… _ muggle _, in a way.”

“Not something a Brit wizard would think, maybe.” Harry’s voice was quieter than he intended, the fight to hold himself up raging deep inside him. Bravery, Harry… bravery. Quirrel let out a dismissive tone.

“Yes, well, you will keep your hands out of your pockets and in clear view or I will remove them,” he said, and then returned to his staring. The frustration in his face was apparent; how long had he been here, Harry wondered, pondering a reflection he could not understand.

“I can see it… in this cursed mirror,” he murmured, “I can see it but I cannot _ have _ it. How, you damned thing… how do you _ work _.”

The voice that replied was grating on Harry’s soul, and he felt the scar throb with each syllable spoken. It was sibilant and foul, a snake in a charnel house.

_ “The boy…” _ it said, _ “Use the boy…” _

Quirrel spun as a green light exploded from behind him, a flash of fear on his face; there were few things that made such a color in the realm of wizardry, and one in particular was to be so greatly feared. That the light was coming Potter’s right eye seemed to cut short any thoughts he was having, and he stood in mute shock. 

It was a loathsome thing to see in the fullness of his sight, and Harry realized what had been hidden by his mind, what had never quite snapped into focus on that night with the troll. He’d been so preoccupied with the rest of things, with the focus on that seething hulk of light and the pillar of warmth he was trying to save, so scared at the moment to have shut out the horror that was laid out before him now. Its shape was shapeless, its form was formless, its light was darkness, its substance was nothing. It oozed and dripped and pulsed and crawled, in up and down and out and in and all around it at once and not at all.

Harry wanted to run, to flee, to turn away so he’d never have to see such a thing again, to take out his eyes so he’d never have to see again at all, but that would not work for he knew this was a thing that would be locked in his mind forever, a dark vision etched forever onto the inside of his skull.

It resolved suddenly, and the first of the primordial horrors was replaced with another as the oozing mass seemed to settle into the form of countless snakes, boiling out of the wavering and cracked light that was Quirrel. There were two there, a soul damaged by its acts but there all the same, and coiled about it was that dark essence of something foul and blackened and charnel. The voice spoke again.

_ “Aaaaaaah, curious…” _ it said, _ “That is a light that these shores have not seen since the days of Grindelwald.” _

“The dark sight,” Quirrel intoned, voice more a moan than anything. Harry felt that was more about the other voice speaking than revelation, but found it hard to say anything.

_ “It is a black thing, only those truly marked by dark magic bear it,” _ the voice continued, and let out a chuckle, harsh and sharp, _ “Marked you are, I would think.” _

“It was you that night,” Harry said, pieces falling into place, “With the unicorn.”

_ “Yessss…” _ Voldemort said, as if pleased by the recognition, _ “Show him, Quirrel...” _

“Master, you’re not…” Quirrel began, only for his eyes to open in wide shock and pain, as if a claw was gripping around his heart.

_ “Show him!” _

And so he did. The pain left Quirrel’s face and he reached up, unwinding the cloth of the turban to reveal a bare head beneath, and in the mirror Harry saw with the truer sight, not the darker one, the face of the man that had murdered his parents. 

_ “It is a tragedy what I am brought to,” _ Voldemort said, grotesque head shifting and adjusting, as if moved by impossible muscles, _ “Reduced to such a state that I am forced to live upon another, a mere parasite.” _

“Seems fitting, I reckon,” Harry said on instinct, teeth grit against the pain in his head transforming the expression into a snarl. Voldemort just seemed amused.

_ “Oh what bravery you have, at such an age. Your parents had bravery too, and it did not save them. Now, boy, you have seen this mirror before, I can see it in your eyes… tell me, what does it do?” _

Harry walked forward. There was little more to do, really, and so he operated on the instincts. Rage that simmered, doubled in the presence of the loathsome things that had not merely murdered his family but endangered his friends. He wanted to stop them, he wanted them _ dead _. Anger, righteous and hot, flushed through him.

“Dumbledore called it the Mirror of Erised,” he began, moving to stand next to the twinned horror, looking deep into that mirror, “He said it showed the ‘most desperate desire of a person's heart,’ which would be the stone, I reckon, for you.”

_ “Yesss… tell me, boy, what do you see.” _

“A weapon.”

The mirror shattered, a cascade of shards falling down. Quirrel took an involuntary step back, shock and horror written across his face. Voldemort screamed, an incoherent hiss of rage and impotent fury. Harry, on the other hand, grabbed. His hand found a large shard, long as his forearm, and gripped tight. Glass sliced through his hand, but the pain was nothing to that behind his eye, and he spun, ramming the shard into Quirrel’s gut with all the force he could muster. Quirrel’s hands wrapped around it, blood welling from between fingers as he staggered back.

Harry didn’t quit. He swept his hand in a flinging motion, hurling up shards to lash out at the man. Anger and instinct drove him, and Quirrel’s clothing was sliced to bloody ribbons as the glass flew by. Some missed, shattering on the wall behind him, but most didn’t. The professor staggered, blood frothing from his mouth as he tried to speak. His hand reached out, a sanguine mess, reaching for Harry, grasping madly, and then he collapsed.

Harry’s breath was coming out in gasps, deep and labored. He stared at the body, watching as the cracked light seemed to flee from it, leaving behind only that oozing wrongness that appeared as a mass of protoplasmic snakes. It rose, then, as rats scurry from a drowning ship, rose like a phantom of horror above the body, and rushed out towards him.

The merciful blackness took him.

♥

Harry was of two minds, fiercely divided about the state of things. He walked out towards the train station with Hagrid, where the Hogwarts Express was waiting to take his friends back home for the semester break. It was unfortunate that he’d woken up only an hour or so before, finding the headmaster waiting for him as he’d known that was the moment that Harry would come to. The young boy had shot up, eyes wide in panic; it had been a wonder his eye had not been shining.

The first thing he’d asked was where Herminone was, where was Ron? Where they alright? Were they safe? 

He saw them, then, as he approached, waiting on the platform, trunks already stowed. They were waiting, though, and Harry realized they were waiting for him. Warmth filled him as they noticed, a smile on Hermione’s face and that happy grin on Ron’s. Hermione waved to him, and he began to run.

He was going to miss them so much. That’s what made him so divided. He was happy, so damn happy they were safe, but he didn’t want to say goodbye, not again. Not to Ron, gruff and rude and often insensitive but a brave and clever person all the same, a good soul on the inside. Harry knew that, he knew souls. He knew Herminone too, that pillar of warmth he’d seen and been so desperate to save. Hermione, who called him brave. Hermione, who was like him, out of place yet wanting to belong, to be helpful. Hermione, who Dumbledore had told him had to be forced to leave the hospital, refusing everyone until the headmaster himself stepped in.

As he approached, she launched herself at him in a crushing hug that reminded him more of Hagrid than Hermione. He flushed, taken aback, before hugging her back.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, face pressed into his shoulder, “I’m so glad you’re alright. I was so worried. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you woke up they made us leave and…”

He laughed, cutting her off as he did. She pulled back, looking up at him in shock.

“It’s fine, Hermione, I’m fine, and more importantly, y’all are fine,” he said, glancing up from her brown eyes to look at Ron. He was happy, if seemingly a bit uncomfortable with all the touchy-feeling stuff going on. Harry quirked a grin at the boy, and Ron’s own increased. Hagrid caught up finally, the half-giant wiping away a tear from the corner of his eye at the scene in front of him. 

“First thing Harry asked ‘bout was you two, you know. Had to be kept in too, stop’em from rushing off to find you.”

Harry flushed deeper at that, but Hermione and Ron just laughed. 

“I wanted to be sure I saw you before you left,” Harry said. Hermione and Ron looked at each other in confusion. 

“Harry, you not coming back on the train?” Ron asked, expression the question clearly on both his and Hermione’s mind. 

“I’ll be using a portkey to head back home,” he said, glancing back at Hagrid as he did. He noted in that moment that the half-giant had donned an oversized stetson and smiled.

“Hagrid is coming along as well, going to visit my uncle’s ranch,” he began, eyes lighting up suddenly with a thought, “You should come too, sometime!”

“Where, exactly is it that you live anyway, Harry?” Ron quirried, and the expressions on both his and Hermione’s face were ones of realization that honestly they’d never even really talked about that. Oh, sure, Harry had mentioned his uncle and a ranch, and that first day on the train, seeming so long ago, Harry had mentioned something about a Mohave County, but Ron hadn’t the foggiest idea where _ that _was. 

“Oh, Harry lives with his aunt and uncle in America, place called Arizona,” Hagrid supplied, “Bit toasty some times but very nice, lots of creatures too. Wide lands where re’em and hippogriff roam.”

“Hippogriff!” Hermione exclaimed. Even she hadn’t quite an idea what a re’em was, but the hippogriff was _ famous _ , “Harry, why didn’t you ever _ say _anything? I’d love to be able to see a hippogriff in the wild!”

“Well, there are those, but most of the ones back home are on the ranch. Uncle raises them and the re’em mostly, and occasionally some other stuff too.”

“Aye, that’s one reason I’m heading back with him,” Hagrid continued, “Got word that Harry’s uncle managed to catch’emself a snallygaster. Beautiful creatures, related to dragons, you know. Thing was causing all kinds of problems for muggles, so had to go and get’em before something bad happened to him.”

Harry snorted, “I think a snallygaster would be fine from most no-maj, Hagrid; thing’s smart as a tack and got a bulletproof hide.”

Ron and Hermione seemed both shocked and lost. Ron wasn’t sure what a snallygaster was, but he was fairly certain he never wanted to see one. Hermione wasn’t sure what one was either, but she WAS sure she _ definitely _wanted to see one. 

The train’s horn sounded, shaking all four of them out of their discussion. A final alert that the train was departing. Harry frowned, but Hermione smiled at him and gave him another hug.

“Don’t worry, Harry, we’ll see each other again soon, I’m sure of it.”

Harry smiled at her, and at Ron.

Despite everything, he just couldn’t wait for his next year at Hogwarts.

▲ End ▲

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank Appliciousness, author of the great Harry Potter and the Secret of the Patronus for betaing this, highly recommend the story if you're a fan of HPMOR. 
> 
> I actually began this story prior to Brilliant, but Scary, and have it more extensively planned out. I currently plan for the first three years to be done in 'one chapter per year,' with a fourth chapter as a brief interlude of non-Harry POV scenes, before moving into separate stories for years 4 through 7. I am currently unsure if this or Brilliant, but Scary, will take precedence, it all depends on the muse.

**Author's Note:**

> Harry Potter wears a cowboy hat during this entire series, but I didn’t mention it because it wasn’t relevant to his journey.


End file.
